


Fifty-Two Days at Sea

by Jenavira



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean, Sandman
Genre: Backstory, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-10
Updated: 2010-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-11 00:59:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenavira/pseuds/Jenavira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has the Pearl again, and the sea is wide and smooth, and the sky is bright and clear, and all is right with the world. A stiff breeze pushes him toward the horizon, and the Pearl reacts to every touch of his hand upon her wheel as though she can read his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fifty-Two Days at Sea

**Author's Note:**

> It was nearly two years ago now, I am ashamed to admit, that someone in [info]pirategasm requested a crossover between Pirates and Sandman. I intended to write a little one-off with Jack and Hob, but then the story developed a plot and a system of morals and it kind of got away from me. And then I slipped out of the fandom, and then I went abroad...long story short, whoever you were, here's your story. Hope you like it.
> 
> If you're a Pirates fan unfamiliar with Sandman, here's all you need to know: the universe is looked after by seven anthropomorphic personifications of the most basic drives: Death, Dream, Destiny, Destruction (who's kind of...retired), Desire, Despair, and Delerium, who was once Delight. Hob Gadling made friends with Dream in 1389, and Dream's big sister Death decided to...indulge him.

  
June, 1701

Day 0

He has the _Pearl_ again, and the sea is wide and smooth, and the sky is bright and clear, and all is right with the world. A stiff breeze pushes him toward the horizon, and the _Pearl_ reacts to every touch of his hand upon her wheel as though she can read his mind.

A line of small islands appears to port, and Jack hauls on a line to bring her about on another tack. He passes only a few fathoms from the islands, and upon a particularly tiny one, he can see a tall, pale man arguing with a group of women, one of which looks on the verge of hitting the pale man. Jack salutes him in sympathy, but no one seems to acknowledge his presence, and he sails on.

"I'm dreaming," he realizes as lighting flashes purple in the sky behind him, and he brings the _Pearl_ about on another tack. That doesn't seem important, though, as long as he has his ship, and so he continues on, running ahead of the storm as long as he can.

Sooner or later, though, the storm is bound to overtake him, and after (a century, an hour, a moment) it does. The winds lash through the rigging, and Jack is hard-pressed to bring in as many sails as he can. Even so, the remaining ones catch the wind, and Jack feels the crack of the mizzenmast as a break in his own bones.

The wind catches the foresail, shredding it, and the line whips around him, lashing him to the dying ship. "Don't worry lass," he says quietly, inaudible even to his own ears under the roaring storm, "I wouldn't let you go down alone." And he won't.

**

Captain Jack Sparrow woke up in an alleyway in Charleston, with the Devil's own headache, but without drink, without coin, without mates, without ship. The facts of life returned slowly, but inevitably, as they always did. Three years it had been since Barbossa's bloody mutiny had taken the _Pearl_ from him, and it still stung with every reminder.

He checked through his pockets, hoping for something interesting to present itself; pistol, yes; compass; yes, sword...surprisingly, yes. But if no gold had miraculously appeared on his person throughout the night, neither had any new bruises, and that was something to be thankful for. The good people of Charleston, Virginia were a touch religious, and didn't take kindly to pirates or drunks, and drunken pirates even less, as Jack had discovered only a few days before. But with no means out of this Puritan-benighted port, there was precious little he could do.

And at any rate, he'd been having some quite fantastic dreams, if he remembered correctly. Dreams of a watery grave, yes, but at least there was the _Pearl_, and the sea. Pulling his hat back down over his eyes, Jack went back to sleep.

**

The sun shone down far too warmly on the bewigged head of the gentleman strolling, as conspicuously as possible, down the lane. He could not help but be conspicuous, dressed as he was -- in a place where seamen's trousers passed for Sunday best, stockings and a periwig were liable to stand out, so the gentleman took advantage of this, and walked as if he owned the place. It wouldn't discourage pickpockets, but it made him feel better about himself.

A gentleman he might appear in the Charleston docklands, but closer inspection would show that he was not quite up to fashion, even for the colonies; that his wig was made of horsehair, and his stockings of coarse wool. He put on a fine gentlemanly front, which served his purpose here, but in New York, no one would be fooled.

Robert Gadling, though, was almost always more -- when he was not less -- than what he seemed. For example, he had only recently arrived in America; having turned out on the wrong side of the Civil War, he had generously been offered a completely involuntary ticket to a fresh start in the Colonies. For a recently Transported criminal, he was doing quite well indeed. For another example, he was currently somewhere in the vicinity of four hundred and thirty years old, despite his appearance as a reasonably healthy man of not quite thirty, as a general consequence of his being too stubborn to die. If pressed -- unlikely, as virtually no-one knew of his immortality -- he might admit that his friendship with a man who was clearly somewhat more than mortal may have something to do with it.

These two factors -- an immortality borne of stubbornness and a fresh start borne of political inconvenience -- had conspired to place Hob Gadling where he was today: in Charlestown, in search of a ship's captain.

And there, alongside the stoop of the _Anchor_, just as he had been told, was the object of his search, just waiting for him. He prodded the man, seemingly unconscious, insistently with a boot.

"Din' you know that wakin' a man like that is bad luck?" grumbled the man, who peered at Hob in irritation before pulling his three-cornered hat back down over his eyes.

Hob was not deterred. "A man in the pub said you were Captain Jack Sparrow."

That woke him up. "Did 'e now," Sparrow said, sitting up straight and readjusting his hat. The trinkets in his hair jingled with every movement. "Well that'd be the first time he got that right."

"In which case I have a proposition for you," Hob continued.

Sparrow's face lit up in a gold-speckled grin. "Well," he said robustly, "that changes matters summat. Cap'n Jack Sparrow, at yer service." He extended a hand to Hob, who siezed it firmly and pulled the man to his feet. Sparrow didn't just stand but practically tumbled into Hob, draping an arm around the Englishman's shoulders in an amazing display of over-familiarity. "Now. About this proposition."

Hob played the rôle of English Gentleman to the hilt, and refused to be put off. "Perhaps we can discuss this in my rooms at the inn," he suggested, and Sparrow grinned at him.

Hob's rooms were more than a little small for two people; it had taken him over a decade to get his hands back on the "family" shipping business and pull himself back up to this level. But now he was nearly there -- he had a ship, and a crew, and a plan, and if this worked out, he would shortly have a captain. And then Hob Gadling would be back on his feet again.

Sparrow declined the offer of dinner, but almost gleefully accepted a drink. He lounged in one of the horrible wooden chairs, feet up on the table, savoring his rum while Hob explained matters to him. It was a simple matter, and simpler surely to a sailor: cargo of tobacco from Virginia, cargo of cloth and gold from England, cargo of slaves from Africa, and begin again with the New World goods. Sparrow was an avid listener, Hob would give him that. It was almost unnerving, being stared at by those unwavering, dark-rimmed eyes. Almost. Sparrow had nothing on Hob's oldest friend.

"An' how hard did they laugh when they suggested my name to you?" Sparrow asked seriously at the conclusion of Hob's speech. Hob tried to look innocent, though he knew he was failing miserably. Sparrow raised an eyebrow, and Hob shrugged.

"I can't offer much. And I've not precisely got the best reputation..."

"Aaah," said Sparrow, leaning his chair back with a satisfied expression. Hob watched in amazement as he didn't fall over. "So you thought, what could possibly be wrong with hiring a pirate?" Hob gaped. "Former pirate," Sparrow amended, though not very sincerely, Hob felt.

Sparrow either didn't seem to notice or just didn't care how Hob was staring at him in shock; they'd certainly never mentioned they were sending him off to hire a pirate. Probably why they were laughing so hard, he reflected glumly. But Sparrow just regarded him with that off-putting gaze, as if he were assessing his new prospective employer. He probably was. "All right then," he finally said, rising from the chair in a surprisingly fluid motion and offering his hand. "You've got a deal. Me, as your captain, for as long as you can keep me."

_Well_, thought Hob to himself, _you've made do with worse_. He shook.

**

Day 3

Hob Gadling stood on the deck of his ship, newly refitted and christened _Resurrection_, feeling ridiculously pleased with himself. For the first time in nearly a hundred years, things could be said to be going well.

The morning of their launch had been blessed with a clear sky and a stiff breeze, and the beautiful weather provided a wonderful backdrop for the encouraging bustle of dockworkers and sailors finishing up the final touches before the Resurrection would be ready to set sail. He watched with satisfaction the crew setting the mainsail, enjoying the thought of the scene they would present to an observer. There was nothing disappointing about this venture, Hob thought -- he was on to a good thing, here.

  
The only thing that didn't fit - not quite - was the captain. A pirate by his own admission. It was difficult to take him seriously, between his half-drunken ambling and his truly ludicrous clothing. His over-familiarity made Hob edgy, especially when he noticed that the excess of attention was directed exclusively at him, and not at any of the crew. He tried to put it from his mind, consider it Sparrow's heavyhanded attempt to ingratiate himself with what was likely his first legitimate employer he'd had in years, but --

"Ready when you are."

Hob jumped - for all his apparent ungainliness Sparrow could move like a cat when he wanted to. For there he was, at Hob's shoulder, looking innocent as all hell. Hob regained his composure and nodded. "Well, Captain," he said, "Will she sail?"

Sparrow frowned at him. "Oh, she'll sail well enough. What she'll do beyond that is somethin' else."

Hob frowned. "Meaning?" But Sparrow didn't answer him directly, just tilted his head at an odd angle and said, "Cargo decks are well suited enough to carrying barrels of tobacco, well enough, but it'll be a bit of a squeeze to put people down there."

More details he hadn't considered? Then again, Hob supposed he should consider himself fortunate there had been as few problems as there had. "I shall keep that in mind, thank you. Still, the slave trade is profitable enough it shouldn't be difficult to turn a profit on this voyage, and from that I can make the necessary adjustments."

Sparrow regarded him seriously for a moment. "Aye," he said at last, before turning the conversation back to the matters directly at hand.

**

Day 8

The first two days on a new voyage were always the worst. New sailors who hadn't worked together before, new ship that nobody knew, and worst of all, new owner who didn't know what he was doing. Most land-men preferred to let the ship alone to make its own course; why Gadling had insisted on coming along was beyond him. Jack tried not to be too critical of the man - after all, he was the one paying him, eh? The first two days were hell, but then they caught a trade wind to London and everything _felt_ right for the first time since he'd lost his _Pearl_. So after the first two days Jack collapsed on deck, empty but for the three men on the night's watch, and enjoyed some of Robert Gadling's fine Jamaican rum.

He was three or four bottles into a case - not all that many, really, not for him - when the little girl arrived. It wasn't very likely, he thought, that she was a phantom of the rum, but then again, he was also pretty damned sure there hadn't been a little girl on board the ship when they'd set sail. Particularly not one with multicolored hair and the sort of dazed expression he imagined people usually saw on him.

She was trailing a fish on a leash. That was almost certainly the rum. Still, didn't hurt to be polite. "A fine evening, miss," Jack said, careful to pitch his voice so that the men couldn't hear him, in case it really was the rum after all.

"Do you think so?" she asked, stepping closer but not looking at him. "Fine is an all right word, I guess. But I much prefer effervescent. Or eldricht."

"At'll do as well," Jack said companionably. The rum was settling down nicely, into that fine hum in his bones that matched the rhythm of the ship so well, and he was feeling quite friendly. "Have a drink?" he asked.

The girl frowned, and shook her head. Then she gave her fish a studious look. "Perhaps my fish could have something. He looks a bit parched."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "That's 'cause fishes belong in water, love, not floating about in the air like that."

She looked up at the fish thoughtfully. "No," she said at last, "he likes it where he is." With that she wandered over and settled down next to Jack on the deck, dangling her feet through the railing and over the water. The fish floated calmly above them. "You're one of mine, you know," she said, sounding pleased.

"I don't doubt it, love," Jack said, and he meant it, although he wasn't sure just what it was he meant.

"You're going a long way," she said, and she sounded less than pleased about that. "My brother told me."

Jack nodded. "That we are, love. To London and the Gold Coast and then all the way back to the hellish paradise that is Jamaica." That sounded like a toast, so he sealed it with a hefty drink of the rum.

The girl shook her head, and rainbow-colored hair swished across Jack's vision. "Longer than that," she said, standing up and wandering a few paces away again. He noticed that she left wet footprints, even though there was no way her feet could have reached the water from where she had sat. "Would you like a raspberry chocolate person?" Small, sticky fingers then reached into his frame of vision, holding what did indeed look like a chocolate person, possibly even raspberry. It wore a large, feathery hat and carried a sword at its belt. It might also have been grinning a deaths-head grin, but it might have just been melting in the summer heat.

"Don't mind if I do," Jack said, and bit its head off.

**

Storm clouds gathered on the horizon, and the crew was nervous. So was Hob, truth told. They'd found Captain Sparrow passed out on the deck next to several empty bottles of rum when the morning watch had changed, and having been woken up he'd cursed and staggered like a man with the devil's own hangover, and vanished back into his cabin, not to be seen again. Hob was beginning to wonder, nervously, whether the crew would be able to weather the storm on their own when Sparrow sauntered out of the main cabin, looking as normal as he ever had. "Mornin, mate," he said cheerfully.

"Nearly afternoon," Hob snapped, more harshly than he'd intended. "And where have you been?"

"About," Sparrow said with his usual maddening vagueness.

"Well, there's..." Hob started, but Sparrow cut him off.

"Yes, I know," he said, sounding as vague as before, his eyes searching the clouds. "Oi! You there," he snapped at one of the sailors, and as he turned Hob noticed a silver bauble dangling from an already heavily decorated strand of the man's hair. Hob frowned; he was certain the thing hadn't been there the day before. So where the hell had he gotten the thing? Sparrow was infuriating, a bumbling mass of a man, ridiculous, frustrating, incomprehensible, and probably still drunk. But damn it all, watching him fit out the ship for the coming storm, even Hob could see that the man was a good captain. I'm going to have to kill him, Hob thought. Only thing for it.

  
**  
Day 25

Hob watched in fascination as the City of London crept into view along the banks of the river Thames, small towns clumping slowly closer and closer together, buildings rising higher, traffic on both the roads and the river growing thicker. He had approached London by water before, of course, but never from the deck of a merchantman. He was enjoying himself immensely.

The face of the city had changed much in his long life, he reflected as the Fire Monument came into view, but it was still London. It was still home.

By the time they were passing the shipyards, Sparrow had apparently placed enough grudging trust in the pilot they'd picked up in Wapping to get them through the Pool in one piece, and he joined Gadling at the rail.

Hob couldn't stop himself grinning. "Wonderful, isn't it," he said, still staring out at the city. "You'd never imagine half the city had been burned to the ground some thirty years ago."

Sparrow, uncharacteristically, had nothing to say to this. Hob glanced up to see him staring at the city as well, a dark look on his face. Hob turned away uncomfortably.

"Are you not a Londonder yourself, then?" he asked, to break the silence.

Sparrow frowned, and seemed to have to think about it. "Oh," he said at last, "I've seen London port a fair few times. Will ye be stayin' long, then?" he asked, before Hob could quite grasp that his question had not been answered.

"As long as business requires," Hob answered guardedly. But Sparrow just nodded, as if unconcerned, and turned back to his ship.

Hob would not find it hard to put the conversation from his mind, amid the confusion of business, and he refused to let it put off his mood. After all, he was back in London again, and back on top of the world. What were the concerns of a hired ex-pirate captain to him?

**

London was, as always, grimy, crowded, and disgusting. Even the dock workers, filthy all over the world by dint of their profession, seemed dirtier in London. "Isn't it grand to be home," Gadling said, breathing the smoke deep and turning to Jack with a wide grin.

"Charming," Jack muttered. What he _wanted_ was to go off somewhere and find something to drink; what he was going to do was spend hours arguing with dock workers about unloading the not-insubstantial cargo of tobacco currently on board the _Resurrection_.

Four hours later, he was ambling in search of a pub and something to help him forget the fact that he'd just spent four hours being a responsible citizen in pursuit of gainful employment. It had to be London, he'd decided two hours ago. London felt like the old world, before Jack Sparrow.

**

He had gotten well into the story about the cannibal jaguar-priests in French Guiyana, and was just getting to the dramatic bit where he himself saved lives and rescued villages, when a particularly coarse voice from behind him said, "I don't believe it." Not, sadly, in the same way that any number of Jack Sparrow's listeners over the years had said "I don't believe it," in a manner usually followed by Jack's assurances that the tale was all, completely true, and the really interesting part is - No, this fellow said "I don't believe it" in a way that indicated he truly did not believe it, and was going to carry on not believing it, possibly with his fist.

Nevertheless, Jack turned around setting strings of beads and the shiny new silver bells clattering. He spread his arms wide, innocent. "What's not to believe? It's all true." (And it was. All of it. Well, most of it.)

The big man snorted. "Nobody can do things like that."

"Ah, but me - I'm Captain Jack Sparrow," said Jack, as if that settled it. It didn't, of course.

"That's not much," the big man said, stepping closer so that he was towering over Jack in what Jack had to admit was a quite menacing fashion. It reminded him strongly of his old bo'sun. "That's not much at all. Just a tiny little man who thinks he's better'n all of us."

"Not exactly," Jack said quickly, lifting a finger in protest. "Just more - " He ducked, narrowly missing a blow to the side of his head. The huge man growled.

Jack was just preparing to duck another blow when the big man was pulled up short, the fist he'd pulled back held firm behind him. "Now, now," said a mild, Irish-tinged voice. "I'm sure the proprietor won't appreciate that. If he ever gets 'round to noticing." Jack peered around his assailant to see a tall, muscular fellow with red hair holding the big man's arm as if it caused him no trouble at all. "Wouldn't want you kicked out of here for a fourth time this week, would we?" The big man made an irritated noise. Jack winced in sympathy. "Move on then." The red-haired fellow let go, and with a last, disgusted look at Jack, the big man did as suggested.

"Decent of you, that," Jack said after a pause.

The red-haired man shrugged. "If you let him get started, he won't stop. And then he'd go home and hit his wife, too." He flashed Jack a grin. "Besides, if he breaks any more chairs there won't be anywhere to sit down in this place."

Jack grinned back. "Damned inconvenience, especially for a place with such a fine brew. We should have another, before Sir Destruction over there forgets his manners again."

The red-haired man got a peculiar look on his face, but it was gone again before Jack noticed it. "Decent of you. Where are you bound, mate?"

Jack's fingers fluttered eloquently. "Here, there, and abouts. Back to Jamaica, eventually, where the sea and the girls are much warmer than London." Something told him to avoid mentioning their stop in Africa to this man.

He seemed pleased enough by the answer given, at any rate, tipping his head back and laughing. "That so?" he asked, seizing them a table as Jack summoned a serving girl for more ale. "Never been to the Indies myself, though I've heard some phenomenally strange stories, your own included. Ever hear of the Isle de Muerta?"

Jack grinned widely. "Do tell."

**  
Day 29

Still full of organizational motivation from an extraordinarily profitable, though brief, stay in London, Hob did not, as usual, hide himself belowdecks as soon as possible after the beginning of the voyage to keep himself out of the way, but stayed above until they were quite out of sight of the bustle of the London docks. He found himself quite impressed, really, at the tremendous choreography of the entire process. He wondered if it might not possibly have something to do with that disreputable captain he'd hired -- the captain he found himself respecting more and more, almost in spite of himself.

The captain who was still standing on the quarterdeck, staring out at the ship with a sort of vacant expression on his face. Hob frowned; wasn't he usually through with supervising by this point in the voyage. Not that Hob had the vaguest idea what this point in the voyage was. But still. He made his way over.

"Still on deck?" Hob ventured, uncertain if he was making some kind of idiotic comment, but feeling the need to say something.

Sparrow shook his head. "Fancy a bit of air, after London," he said.

Hob frowned; what could the man possibly mean by that? He'd always thought London had a fantastic sort of air. A bit soupy, perhaps, and not to everyone's tastes, but -- but Sparrow still wasn't looking at him, he noticed. Either London had affected him more deeply than he was saying, or he was still hung over. Hob found the latter more likely.

Hob turned out to face the way Sparrow was looking, and managed a companionable silence for all of two minutes. "Rather lonely, isn't it?" he said, and winced, the cheerfulness in his voice belying the somber nature of the observation. "Life at sea. No one around for miles..." He trailed off as Sparrow started to turn to look at him, but paused as if halted before his head managed the full turn around. Again, Hob turned to see what the man was looking at. He could see nothing in particular, just one of the men -- almost a boy, really, slim-hipped and tawny eyed, coiling a line and seeming more aware of the two men's gazes than he ought.

When Hob turned back, he was treated to the full force of Sparrow's gold-tinted grin. "Well, there's no use in stayin' lonely, is there?" he said with a tilt of his head, before snatching a bottle off the railing and wandering off.

He looks much less ungainly on board a ship than he does on land, Hob noticed again as he watched Sparrow walk away. Much less.

**

Day 34-35

"Yer a strange one, Robert Gadling."

"Call me Hob," Hob found himself saying, a rare invitation to use the old mortal nickname.

"Hob." Sparrow tasted the name, then nodded, apparently finding it to his liking.

"Not frightened of dying," Sparrow said casually, in that way he had of returning to a topic of conversation minutes or even hours old, tossing back another generous swig of rum.

"I didn't say I was frightened of dying," Hob said, trying hard to come up with a reasonable way to explain this and finding it harder than usual, due to his brain's uncommon fuzziness. Perhaps more rum would help. It certainly burned holes in his mind, though these seemed to be in the wrong place. "Only that I'm not going to."

Sparrow nodded as if this were the most reasonable thing in the world and did not, to Hob's severe irritation, ask why or how this was possible. "I met Death, once," Sparrow said.

"Oh?" Hob said eloquently. He seemed to be having difficulties finding the proper words, and besides, he was still disgruntled that Sparrow wasn't more impressed by his revelation.

Sparrow nodded. "Nice girl she was, too. Very charming."

That certainly didn't seem right. "I thought Death was a skeleton in a cape, with a scythe," Hob said. He wasn't sure that was right either, though. Hadn't Death been a woman once? He couldn't remember. It had been so long.

"Nope," Sparrow was saying, "lovely girl with lots of black hair and white skin. Not just pale, like, actually white. An' some very nice Egyptian jewelry."

"Sounds like a friend of mine," Hob offered.

"Aye?" Hob nodded. "Oo's that then?"

Hob shrugged. "I'm not really sure. I thought he was Death for a while, but now I'm not so sure." He frowned down at his empty bottle, and Sparrow gave him another.

"Her brother, maybe?"

Hob laughed skeptically. "Who's the brother of Death?"

"I dunno. Darkness, maybe?"

They pondered this in silence for a moment.

"It's shit sometimes," Hob said suddenly, not knowing why. Well, that wasn't true, he did know why - it was shit sometimes - but why was he telling Sparrow? Who cared. "Because, you know, everyone else dies. Your wife. Your son. Even that pretty girl behind the bar who's barely sixteen. I've outlived 'em all. And I'll do it again, too. It's..." he waved the bottle, but felt sure the gesture just wasn't as elegant as one of Sparrow's. "Sometimes, it's shit."

Sparrow regarded him seriously. "But you're still here, mate."

Hob smiled weakly. "Yes. I'm still here."

Sparrow's lip curled slightly. "Yer a strange one, Hob Gadling," Sparrow said again. And then, without much warning, the distance between them had closed, and Hob found a pair of warm, rum-soaked lips on his.

**  
Day 38

He knew he should probably be in his cabin, keeping out of the way, but the sun and the fair breeze and the anticipation had Hob Gadling out on deck anyway, as the _Resurrection_ approached the African shore under her captain's capable hands. Nearly two-thirds of the way through their journey, and he still wasn't sure if this venture was going to turn a profit for him. Naturally he was a bit nervous. Fortunately, the crew seemed adept at avoiding his pacing -- at, in fact, ignoring him altogether.

Hob wondered, not for the first time, if the unity and discipline of his crew had anything at all to do with their captain. He couldn't be certain, but he felt somehow that they had not been nearly so well-organized when they had left Charleston over two months ago. He had hired Jack Sparrow then, and cheerfully, knowing he couldn't afford any better, and reasoning that even an inebriated ex-pirate had to be less likely to sink the ship than he was. And yet -- inebriated Jack Sparrow remained, and an ex-pirate, of course, but the whole of the man certainly seemed to make up more than the sum of his parts.

And Jack Sparrow made him ask questions he'd thought were answered long ago, with his dark and musical hair and catlike eyes that sometimes seemed to flash yellow, like the gold in his teeth, in the moonlight as he stood at the helm, looking for all the world like captain of the entire ocean rather than just one small merchant vessel.

Hob allowed himself a brief glimpse of the future. In eighty years, sitting in a pub in London and telling his old friend about his excellent business in the Caribbean and the brilliant captain he'd dredged up from the depths of the colonies. The most loyal man I know, he would say, and a good friend. He wondered if it could be true.

**

Jack stood near the prow of the ship, arms folded, leaning over the rail, watching the crew weigh anchor at the Gold Coast. Which wasn't, really, gold at all, but more a shining silver, reflecting the light off the beach in a way that reminded him tremendously of a certain small island back in the Caribee. Damned metaphors. If it weren't for the name, he doubted he'd have noticed.

Of course, a few fathoms down the coast, they called it the Slave Coast, and that wasn't a metaphor at all, and no more comfortable for it.

"l'Afrique, at last," said Hob from behind him, sounding bloody well relieved. Jack grunted without turning around. "I, ah, don't suppose you speak any of the local lingo; I know a bit of it myself, enough, but..."

There were literally hundreds of African slaves-turned-pirate in the Caribbean, and Jack had sailed and fought with - and against - many of 'em. Jack probably knew more languages than ten inquisitive Natural Philosophers put together, though the Philosophers would hardly have acknowledged that.

"No," he said shortly.

"Ah," Hob said again, but did not press the issue. At least the man wasn't a complete fool, Jack thought to himself. "Well," Hob said again, "We may be the better part of the day." Jack didn't answer, and soon he heard the man's footsteps across the deck as he walked away.

The crew, despite their deplorable status as respectful, gainfully employed merchant sailors, were really quite good at their jobs, so Jack had only to say a few words to the mate and they would be off reprovisioning, quite without need of his command for a while. Jack, for reasons he wouldn't have been able to explain if asked, which he wasn't, set off toward the treeline.

He wandered, twisting and turning through the dense foliage that hemmed him in like some overgrown version of a wealthy lordling's hedge maze. He had no concerns about getting lost. He knew where the sea lay.

Jack rounded a huge, vine covered tree and stopped short. A man stood there, robed and hooded like a Spanish monk, a hefty book in his hands.

It was enough to raise concerns about the rum again, except he hadn't had nearly enough yet today and besides, he'd been having visions this entire damned voyage. Had he finally reached a state of perpetual inebriation where he saw visions while sober? Perhaps he'd caught the pox somewhere without noticing it.

"You have not," said the vision, looking up from his book and straight at Jack. "You are still moving in circles. You have a long way to go, yet."

"Heard that one before, mate," Jack said, cocking his head to see if this thing made any more sense sideways. "You'll have to do better'n that if you want me to be impressed."

The vision made a sound that, if it had come from a less dignified vision, might have been a "hmph." He looked back to his book, flipping a large page with great reverence. "Not yet," he said, "not even soon. But eventually. It is, at least, the right path." Then the vision looked back up at Jack, examining him closely. Its eyes lit on the compass still hanging from his belt. "You have the way to get there," it said. Then the vision nodded and turned away, as obvious a dismissal as there ever was.

"That's it?" Jack asked. There was no answer. He stared at the vision for a few moments more, hoping it would either turn around and say something else or at least vanish like a proper vision before he gave up, turning back seaward and forcing his way through the undergrowth.

He hadn't made it ten yards before he stopped. Annoyed, he twisted around to look behind him, but the vision -- if it had ever been there at all -- was gone. "What exactly do you lot want from me?" he asked the forest in general.

No one answered, but a rustling in the trees not quite far enough off for comfort sent him back to the beach anyway, irritated and quite confused.

**  
Day 49

A basin of tepid water made a poor mirror, but Jack had never been particularly vain, and it was enough to shave in, most days. Today, though, he found he could hardly tear his eyes from it, the tiny distorting ripples seeming to reflect not his face, but something entirely darker and more unfamiliar.

Two months they'd been at sea; a month and a half too long, Jack could have said, though no one would ever have expected such sentiments from him. The freedom he usually felt on board a ship was stifled by the closeness of the atmosphere -- he felt easily as smothered as the soon-to-be-slaves in the hold. Another two had died in the early morning watch; their removal had hardly even raised a stir this time.

The stench of death was all through the ship.

He had thought that he could do this.

Gadling didn't seem to notice. He still strode about the deck each morning and afternoon with his customary good cheer; even the boredom of two months at sea seemed little to bother him. Jack's fingers idly traced the compass that hung at his belt.

The call of "Ship ahoy!" startled him out of his reverie; Jack scowled and headed for the decks. It would, of course, be _his_ return to the Caribeean that someone would decide to notice. Never mind that he was on perfectly legal business this time around. Maybe he'd be lucky, and no one would remember him. Maybe he'd be very lucky, and he'd be captured right off this hell-barge.

The sailors had called their ahoys, but the voice that called out, "What ship?" was clearly that of an officer. Jack squinted across the water; Navy, as he'd expected. He strode over to the rail and called back, "_Resurrection_, two months out of Charleston. Slaves, for sale."

At the mention of slaves, the young captain's face hardened, green eyes turning flinty, and Jack felt a certain kinship with the man. Eventually, the captain nodded brusquely, and turned away from the rail.

"What was all that about?" Gadling asked, naively.

"Just keepin' an eye," Jack muttered, still watching the Navy ship as it pulled away. _Interceptor_, he noted her name; light and fast, faster than us, he noted automatically. A good-looking ship. Even Navy, he'd give anything to be on board her just now. "Means they'll be looking at us when we hit port," he told Gadling. "Making sure we are who we say we are."

"And what else would we be?"

Jack couldn't resist flashing Gadling a huge grin; he knew how well his gold teeth flashed in the sunlight.

"Ah."

Jack shook his head. "You've still a lot to learn about the shipping business, mate," he told Gadling, as companionably as he might have months ago, "...an' it's too bad I won't be around to teach you. 'Course, then them Navy officers probably wouldn't be quite so polite about askin'." Jack grinned to himself when Gadling looked a bit nervous; forgot, had you lad, that you hired a pirate to captain your ship? Best not forget that again.

Maybe the Caribbean was doing something for him after all. For the first time in weeks, Jack felt nearly human.

**  
Day 53

The jingle of coin in his pocket, still only a precedent of what was to come, should have filled him with vigor, but Hob felt oddly dejected. He had now all he needed -- a trade, a ship, a means of getting back on his feet again and carrying on the Gadling "family" tradition. Oh yes, and solid ground under his feet again -- so unfamiliar he felt nearly as seasick as the first time he'd ever been aboard a ship. The furious activity of Port Royal's docks was reassuring; the young city had the look of something that was settling in to stay for a while. Strange, he thought, now that he was back in the New World his thoughts turned more easily toward the future than ever before.

Turning down the docks to stop back at the _Resurrection_ for a moment, Hob nearly walked into Captain -- former captain -- Jack Sparrow.

They both stopped, and turned as if to address one another, though neither spoke for a long moment. Sparrow was looking at him as if he expected something, perhaps an apology.

Hob fidgeted uncomfortably. "You'll be all right, then?" he said, ridiculously. As if Jack Sparrow was ever going to be not all right.

"Sure," Jack answered vaguely, gazing about himself and wobbling a bit in that perpetually unsteady way he had. "I'll find a ship." _I'll steal one if I have to_, Hob heard behind his words. He should never have had any illusions about this man, he realized; "ex-pirate" did not do him justice.

"I'll be seen' you, Hob Gadling," Sparrow said then, seriously, and then he turned away and was gone, leaving the customary trail of chaotic crowd in his wake.

And that was that. Only three months, Hob reflected, to change the world around again. And then he grinned to himself. _Done it before in less_.

_I shall have to hire a new captain_, Hob realized, and started off again with a purpose.


End file.
